Scent
by Mistress DragonFlame
Summary: 'May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent,' went the Dalish saying. Pity Inquisitor Trevelyan did not heed the warning. ONE-SHOT. One-sided Solas/Inquisitor.


**Title** – Scent  
 **Rating** – T  
 **Pairings** – One-sided Solas/Inquisitor  
 **Summary** – 'May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent,' went the Dalish saying. Pity Inquisitor Trevelyan did not heed the warning.  
 **Author** – Mistress DragonFlame.  
 **Notes** – I have the firm head canon that Solas, if he hadn't been such a racist, would have been romancable by non-elf female inquisitors, in particular human ones. This is a take on him having a creepy, one-sided infatuation. Set sometime after the Winter Palace.

 **XXXXX**

Solas took his time in his rotunda, cleaning the remaining paint off his brushes. It was late in the evening, past when he normally should have begun to wander the fade, but he was restless. The mural of the Inquisition was something he took upon himself to do, when they first arrived at the abandoned Skyhold. With every step, the Inquisition was changing history, and he wanted to ensure its documentation—as his own story had been documented so long ago.

He sighed, as he placed away one brush, to pick up another that needed maintenance. He had run out of red pigment; he'd have to inquire from the Ambassador Josephine for more before he could continue any further. He knew he'd probably receive little difficulty in receiving more, even though he knew that red was particularly difficult to come by. Inquisitor Trevelyan loved his murals, and so her advisers were encouraged to provide him with anything he needed for them.

His mind, once again, wandered to that of the human who lead the Inquisition. Hailing from a noble house in Ostwick, across the Waking Sea, they would likely never have met had it not been for the chaos that had been the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Instead, he had met her as she lay manacled, unconscious on the floor, surrounded by armed guards at all times. He had been stunned when his agent returned to him from the hornets' nest of Haven after the explosion, telling about a woman who had fallen from the Fade with his mark upon her hand. He had been further amazed she still lived by the time he had been allowed close enough to inspect her. The fact that she was human, and not of his people—washed out and foolish as the elves were—first sent a furrow of anger through him. Humans had already taken over his lands, slaughtered and subjected his kind, and now one dares to bare the ancient magic of Arlathan? He would have simply taken his mark before fleeing, if upon his study he didn't discover that it had welded to her—body and soul. Removing her hand wouldn't even sunder the connection; it was impossible to sever his mark from her being without his former power, and he was still far too weak.

And so he made certain she would live, at least long enough to test her ability to seal the horrifying rifts into the fade that had begun to crop up as soon as the sky rent open from the blast of his orb. She had been confused, cautious when she met him and Master Tethras at that first rift. He had been aloof but polite, having played too many games of politics to let his disdain for her race show upon their formal meeting. It was only after she attempted to seal the Breach the first time that he began to truly notice _her,_ and not her unfortunate race. After she had awoken from the failed attempt—again, exceeding his expectation of her durability after so much magic spilled through her—she had shown herself to be a friendly, inquisitive girl. He had expected her to be as dismissive of him, being a 'knife-eared apostate,' as the rest of the humans in the encampment were, but she had only thanked him for helping her, and respectfully inquired about his various travels. As time went on, and their conversations lengthened, he found himself oddly drawn to the human they called the Herald of Andraste. He was constantly surprised of her kindness and wisdom, and soon found himself placed as one of her most trusted confidants. It was the best place for him to continue to pursue his missing orb within the fledgling Inquisition, but it also put him in the unique situation of constantly watching her and her actions. The more he watched, the more he learned, the more he wanted to know. It was… curious.

Like tonight, for example. He would not normally stay awake this late, but she had invited him to join her group—her Inner Circle, as it was frequently called—in the tavern for drinks and music. It was not often that she had enough spare time for frivolousness, between her constant excursions as Inquisitor to far flung areas of Orlais and Ferelden, and she had organized the minor celebration for her and her friends. He had politely declined her morning invitation, but he had glimpsed her leave the main hall before dinner. She had been dressed in a bright, vibrant blue dress, Ferelden in style, a simple flowing thing to grasp the fleeting mountain summer.

He tried to busy himself with painting until he was tired enough to sleep, but he had run out of red paint.

With a huff, he tossed his perfectly clean brush into the bin he used to keep such supplies, and turned from the room. It was late. Surely they had all gone to bed by now.

Clasping his arms behind him, he leisurely walked into the main hall. It was silent in there, with only a few candles left to burn for light. One of the guards posted at the Heralds' entry door shifted as Solas entered into the room, but they didn't call out to him. He was a common enough sight.

He turned and began to walk casually towards the courtyard. It was a nice evening for a walk, if nothing else; perhaps a route along the ramparts would tire him enough to sleep. However, before he could get to the great entryway doors, they opened, emitting two of the Inquisitor's Inner Circle.

"Solas! My favorite fellow apostate," Dorian slurred upon sighting him. He probably would have also grabbed a hold of him as he swayed for balance, if Solas hadn't taken a hasty step back. "I'd've thought you were— _hick_ —were off traversing the fade _long_ before now."

"Whoa, there," Iron Bull cooed, as he righted his lover, "You know he doesn't like to be touched."

Solas glanced over both of them, noting their flushed complexion and the heavy pall of alcohol that wafted from both of their breaths. "It seems the party is winding down," he commented, carefully. Dorian was obviously more intoxicated than his partner, as he curled into the broad chest of the Qunari with a grin. Both were close companions to Trevelyan, unique and powerful as much as such creatures could be, given both were even more detached from the Fade than the elves of this time.

"There are still a few of us down at the pub," The Tevinter said, "Cards and dancing mostly. You should go, you were the only one to not show tonight. Our grand, lovely, Lady— _hick_ —Herald asked for you."

He did not notice something twinge in his chest at the declaration, and his face remained perfectly calm. "I had already declined her invitation. Further, I am not one for drink, dance, nor cards. She had no reason to expect me."

"Then what a pleasant surprise it will be!" He chirped, again reaching for stability on Solas' shoulder, before being corralled once more. "At least to check on her; I would, but, you know." He grinned at Iron Bull, and Solas made note to avoid the ramparts near Dorian's room for the rest of the evening.

"The Inquisitor is winding down around now, but she may need encouragement to go to bed." Iron Bull said, his one eye leaving his lover to look at him, "Can you help us with that?"

Solas was never quite certain what to do in the case of the Iron Bull. He led a band of mongrel mercenaries, was a self-declared spy, had a Tevinter magister as a lover, and was completely beholden under the Qun. For someone so intelligent, as much as someone not Elvhen could be, it was disheartening that he willingly submitted to being a mindless drone. But that didn't make him any less dangerous. Even now, with that simple inquiry, it seemed as if Bull was shuffling pieces around on a chess board, testing him, but for what purpose? Solas' role as adviser and companion to the Inquisitor was indisputable, same as theirs.

"I will see if she is well, and escort her to rest should she need it." He answered neutrally. He could always swing by after walking the ramparts; perhaps everyone would be gone by then.

"Toodle-loo!" Dorian wiggled his fingers and then began to stumble off towards the western staircases, a chuckling Bull being towed along.

Solas sighed, before continuing on his path to the courtyard.

The night was crisp, and cool as dictated by the mountains around them. The full moons hung high in the sky, a testimony to how late it was. It was a wonderful evening for a walk, but his legs did not listen to him to go to the stairwell along the wall, and took him instead down the entry steps to the tavern with no deviation.

Upon stepping into the Tavern, the noise and the heat and the smell almost physically assaulted him. Stale beer, mead, sweat and smoke filled his sensitive nose, and he immediately huffed, trying to clear it, to little success. His eyes stung as he scanned the smoky, lit interior, noting that it was mostly empty, save for a few corner tables, a couple of musicians who were currently more focused on sipping their drink than playing, and a larger table that held the remainder of the Inquisitor's party, laughing and chatting and betting.

He spotted her the same time she spotted him, as she stood next to the table and held one hand of Krem's in both of hers, idly swinging it as the man held his cards in the other and was only half turned to her. Her dress was just as blue as he remembered, long enough to brush her calves, sleeveless with gathered shoulders, and a modest back and front. Her face lit up, a grin splitting her lightly flushed, delicate features, and she virtually pranced over to him as he walked to meet her.

"Solas!" She called, and then suddenly she was in his arms, her own wrapped inarticulately around him, and he intentionally did not think about where his hands were. She, as her companions before, had the strong scent of mead, and also the hint of spice which gave indication that she had been imbibing in the distilled alcohol that Varric proudly experimented with. "You made it! Wonderful, come, come," she spun, gripping his hand—from wherever it had been—and begun to pull him across the room.

He reluctantly allowed himself to be brought to the table. It was mostly empty, and those there were the ones who were invested into cards, largely made up of the Iron Bull's Chargers. Blackwall—notably down on his luck; the man had a terrible poker face for someone with a beard covering half of it—was on the far chair, next to Skinner, who was dealing. Grim matched his name as he frowned first at his cards, then at Solas, and then into his cup. Cassandra, surprisingly, was still at the table, scowling at her hand as if it was complex arithmetic. Rocky had his hand face down, and was apparently betting blind. Sera was inelegantly passed out onto the table, a mostly empty bottle of something spiced before her and the others merely bet over her. Varric was next to Krem, and twisted in his chair as they approached.

"Well, well, look at what the Inquisitor drug in! I don't think I've ever seen you in here before, Chuckles."

He, despite himself, very much liked the Child of Stone that was Master Tethras. Before his long sleep, Solas had little experience with Dwarves, and what he had were more reminiscent of dealing with a hive of bees. Varric destroyed what little knowledge he had, being happily stone blind, creative, and humorous regardless of the situation at hand. He had no idea what the tearing down of the veil would do to someone completely removed from the Fade, but he hoped that he would survive.

"I was asked by our companions to check up on this gathering," he replied, not thinking on how the Inquisitor was holding onto his arm now with both of her hands. He instead gave a parting glare at the shame that was Sera, as she gave a particularly loud snore. Was that drool on the table? Shameful. "It is quite late, and we have to prepare in the morning for the coming journey."

"The evening is winding down, yes," the dwarf agreed, "And our _lovely leader_ should be going to bed after the drinks she's had," he emphasized, smirking at the Herald. It seemed to have been an ongoing conversation.

 _"Varric!"_ She whined, and then stepped towards the dwarf, leaving Solas' arm strangely cold. She stooped and wrapped her arms around Varric's head, and mournfully rubbed her cheek against his hair. "I don't want to go to bed yet, I'm not tired. I want to _dance."_

"Sorry, Sugar," Varric chuckled as he moved his face out of her arms enough to see his cards, "All your dance partners have left. Just us boring lot remaining."

"You're no fun. _Dorian_ would dance with me."

"In case you haven't noticed, I am not him. Dorian left to go play 'Qunari Invasion,'" Varric quipped. Solas felt his face take up a pained expression, and he did not notice how red Trevelyan got and how far down the blush went.

"Ugh! _Varric,"_ Cassandra huffed in disgust, though in reference to the pun or the brash humor, Solas was uncertain. She reached over the table to smack at the dwarf, but he dodged nimbly with a snicker.

"Solas," The Herald suddenly had the epiphany that there was a new target in the room, _"You_ can dance with me!" She stumbled on the short distance between him and Varric's chair, and he had to catch her before she fell completely to the ground. She giggled at her misstep, hanging halfway to the floor in his hands, further indicating her level of intoxication.

"I think it is time for bed, not dancing." He said instead, carefully pulling her back up and holding onto her elbows. "And where are your shoes?" He blinked down at her dainty feet, more surprised than he should be to see them. It's not as if he was _unaware_ that she had feet, and he had grown up where shoes were not used, but it… was just surprising, he supposed. She had been wearing some when he saw her earlier this evening, he was sure, something Leliana probably procured for her.

"Somewhere," She flicked her fingers in the direction of the table, "My feet hurt, so I took them off. Dancing shoes are apparently not meant for _actual_ dancing." The toes wiggled under his gaze. He wasn't certain how he felt about seeing them, so close to his own. Humans didn't go around barefoot.

"Come on," She tried to plead, and his eyes left her feet to look back at her. She wrapped her arms around his neck for leverage, allowing herself to hang slightly. Whether for balance or other reasons, he was uncertain. "You _owe_ me. You didn't dance with me at the Winter Palace, no matter how many times I asked." He recalled denying her requests, content instead to be relatively unseen as he observed the court around him. He had not spent his time watching her dance at the palace, elegantly gliding across the floor with various nobles and courtiers they were attempting to curry favor with. He had not watched during the times she had allowed herself dances with her accompanying party members or advisers, done for the joy of it and not the favors, and he had not noted that her grace would have given credit to an Elvhen.

"Can't have the Lady Inquisitor dance with her lowly elven serving man, not when there were murderous Grand Duchess's around," He smiled as he pulled her hands from his neck, to show he meant no harm with his self-depreciating comment. He kept her hands between them, to prevent her from grabbing at him again.

She huffed, "I still don't like that you _insisted_ on being titled that."

"Would 'renegade elven apostate' have served better?"

 _"Solas,"_ she rolled her eyes, as overly dramatic as the alcohol was making her. It had been a much more heated, concise argument when it first occurred, but apparently tonight it didn't hold enough attention for her, she was on a mission. "Would you dance with me?" She turned her eyes back to him, looking up at him through her lashes. "Please?"

He sighed, long and slow and suffering, "I will dance with you—" she perked up and opened her mouth to respond, but he plowed on before she could, "—on _one_ condition. It will be for one dance, and after I shall escort you to bed. Where you will _sleep."_

She pouted again, clearly warred with the decision to dance but at the concession it would be the end of her night. It was times like this that Solas was painfully reminded just how young the Inquisitor was. Not only compared to him, but even amongst her Inner Circle she was the youngest. So much weight upon such frail shoulders, so much life taken away the moment her hand was marked by his magic. But she was human, she was sundered from the fade; it was an unfortunate reality of hers that even at her longest span, she'd never see a hundred. Such an unfortunate life for her, for all creatures of this mockery, imitation world; it broke his heart that they so suffered for what they had unknowingly lost. It was rare she was able to indulge in such childish antics, and she wouldn't be able to much longer, so he allowed himself to justify caving to her whims.

"Accept the offer, Sugar," Varric showed his hand to the scowls of Cassandra and Blackwall, winning the round, "I don't think any of the rest of us will dance tonight, even if you stay. Unless you want to play Diamondback?"

"I hate Diamondback." She stuck her tongue out at the dwarf, before turning back to Solas and putting on her most prim expression she could with the flush of her face and the heavy smell of mead. "Very well, Master Solas, we have an… uh… what's the word?" Her face scrunched, and he did not notice how adorable it was.

"Accord?" His lips twitched.

"Right, an accord." Nodding, she then took their joined hands and began to sway towards the musicians and cleared out center of the room.

The main musician, a human woman with brown hair that had followed from Haven and he had not bothered to learn the name of, looked up from where she had been idly plucking out an endless ditty. "Found another one, have you?" She asked with a smile.

"A last one," Solas clarified, "Could you play ' _Maid that sold her Barley_ '?" He asked, naming a song that was lively, but not too complex or long. Its traditional accompanying dance was also something that would keep them mostly separate, rather than the press of more intimate steps as had been almost standard at the Palace.

"Sure," The musician waved to her companions, and the music started with a thrill of a violin.

Solas made certain to ignore the other members of the Inner Circle as he and the Inquisitor went through the motions of the dance, strangely uncomfortable with them there, even though nothing he was doing was questionable. The Lady Trevelyan didn't ever drop her wide grin as she—more than once—stumbled through the steps, having lost most of her grace with the addition of her drinks. He had to shift his grip from her hands, to her upper arms more times than the dance required. He did not notice how soft her skin was during those moments.

Soon enough the song was done, and predictably, she immediately adopted a wounded expression and clung to him. "We had an agreement, come on now."

"Noooo..."

"Let's find your shoes." He had felt her bare feet brush against his a couple times as she stumbled through the dance.

He walked her to the table again—Blackwall had only a few coins left, and Grim frowned at his increased pile—and left her there to look freely without her hanging off him.

His gaze swept the floor under the table, and around it, but couldn't find any lost article of hers. He tried to remember what they had looked like, were they blue to match the dress? He glanced up, to ask if anyone knew where they were, and saw that Trevelyan had chosen to take a seat at the table as she waited. Apparently, an already occupied one, he noted, as he watched the Herald of Andraste cuddle into Krem's lap.

He blinked, and he kept his face perfectly still. "Does anyone recall seeing the Inquisitor's shoes?"

"Her Worship's shoes had been under that chair, last I knew," Krem replied helpfully over the Inquisitor's shoulder. "But if they're not there, I don't know what would have happened to them." Solas did not pay attention enough to see how the mercenary had to reached around her waist to place his bet for the cards he held.

Solas glanced at the chair indicated, and there was nothing under or around it. "It seems they are gone," he commented, before rounding the table. "We shall have to find them in the morning." He delicately pulled her to her feet, something Krem did not fight against (Solas did not think about what would have happened if he had), and tucked her arm under his elbow. "Say goodnight, now, Inquisitor."

She waved and the others bid her farewell in turn, and then they were leaving the oppressive smell and heat and company of the tavern. He breathed a deep, cleansing breath into the crisp air, feeling the slight tension from being in the establishment ease from his shoulders. He shook his head to clear the lingering discontent, a motion more kin to the form he use to take while in the fade. But that form did not serve him any more, not in this new world, so he had locked it away like a coat for the winter.

Together, they walked leisurely towards the stairs, around the practice ring set up in the court yard, empty and silent. A sense of peace settled on him, light and airy, as they traversed in the cool quiet. He did not think on what that sensation meant when he had a swaying Inquisitor on his arm.

"Ow," she said, stumbling into him again, "I don't know how you stand all the little rocks on the ground."

"Perhaps this will serve as a lesson not to lose your shoes," He commented mildly, feeling his lips tug as he again eyed her bare feet in the moonlight. They were small, pale things, dusty from the short walk through the yard made bare by hundreds of training soldiers. They were probably still sore from her dancing, and unused to the feel of the earth beneath them.

He did not think of why as he turned, and carefully lifted her into his arms, her legs delicately hooked over one hand and the other hand curled around her shoulders. She laughed at the sudden change, and protested that she was too heavy to be carried as such.

"Nonsense, I've carried travel packs heavier." She was larger than the female elves of this time, closer to what would be normal from Arlathan, but she was still a slight thing despite her battle prowess. He did not think on how delicate she felt, carried in his arms.

She giggled, and settled, "Travel packs are normally on your _back."_

"They are when the spiders don't chew on the leather straps. Then it is either leave it, or carry it."

"Did you have that happen often?"

He began to tell her of the experience, as they so often had such conversations, and completely did not pay attention to the warmth of her pressed to his chest, the silkiness of her gown under his fingers. He did not pay attention to the weight of her head against him, or how her fingers curled into his amulet cord. He continued to distract both of them with the story as he carefully opened the entry way door, closing it with a brief touch of his will behind them.

His voice lowered as they entered, and she matched him in hushed whispers to ensure their voices didn't carry through the cavernous hall to the sleeping quarters above.

The two guards eyed them as they approached, but he kept his face neutral. She waved at them as if they were also of her Inner Circle, and both looked uncomfortable at the gesture, uncertain how to react to the situation of their intoxicated leader and supposed Herald of Andraste being carried in the arms of the knife-eared apostate. Solas knew they had been recently been placed there by Commander Cullen, supposedly for 'safety' but he knew that there were probably a bit more personal reasons to it than that. He also knew that one of them was a spy for Sister Nightingale, and would be telling her all about this. He kept his face blank and asked for them to open the door, for there was nothing wrong with what he was doing. Nothing.

She waved again with a giggle as he pulled the door shut behind them, carefully making his way up the long flight of stairs. He had to shift her in his arms higher, to ensure she didn't hit her head against the wall, and he did not think about how she happily snuggled into his neck.

They had lapsed into comfortable silence since he began ascending, and he counted the steps and turns and he did not focus on the way her breath ghosted across his skin. She was quieting down now, her alcohol consumption and dancing finally making her tired, and he knew that she would sleep when he dropped her off.

"You smell lovely, you know," she said suddenly, digging her face into his shirt and breathing in. He did not stumble, nor did he tighten his grip on her. He didn't.

"You always smell wonderful," she sighed, her fingers warm on the back of his neck as they traced his necklace up. "Like something earthy, and paint, and an old, good book. Like," She inhaled again, and his hair did not stand on end in response. "Sandalwood, and the crispy, seared smell of a recently closed fade rift."

"Crispy smell?" His voice was perfectly neutral, perhaps a fleck of amusement. They passed through the last hallway door before her room, and began to make the final ascent. They were almost there.

"I don't know, it smells—like magic, but sealed. Powerful, but cut off."

"Hm," he said noncommittally. Step, step, turn— _focus_. She lapsed into silence, and he did not break it.

It was right before he reached her bedroom door that she spoke again, "Solas, what do I smell like? Do I smell pleasant?"

He paused before setting her down, just for a heartbeat. Then he carefully set her dainty feet onto the wooden floor, and allowed her to lean against the door rather than him. He did not miss her warmth in his arms. He gently removed her hands from his neck before he replied, "You want me to smell you?"

He should deny her request, bid her goodnight, turn, and leave. It was an odd request, something he knew she'd regret when she awoke in the morning, embarrassed, and likely apologize for. He knew the spy downstairs was counting the time he was up here, alone with the Inquisitor. He knew he shouldn't, because if he had her scent, he—

"Please?"

She didn't know what she was asking, _couldn't_ know. Looking at him with those expressive eyes, simultaneously filled with wisdom and innocence, her face lightly washed in the moonlight pouring in through the hole in the wall. His feet wouldn't move, glued to the ground and tangled against hers.

He knew it was a terrible thing, when he leaned down and placed his nose next to her hair, but he couldn't stop himself as he took a breath. He had far keener senses than he rightfully should, a lingering trait he had spent centuries cultivating, and he could identify all the nuances to her scent.

There was first the smell of tobacco smoke, and wood smoke from the tavern air, layered over mead and beer and her sweat. He smelled Varric, Dorian, Blackwall, Krem, Sera and even Cassandra lingering in her strands, recent additions over that of the minute notes of Cullen and Leliana, more distant in the past. His breath did not catch as he released it, heated against her ear.

He dropped his face slowly, inhaling another steady breath, until his nose was at her throat. He smelled her soap and perfume, an expensive concoction she had picked up in Orlais during their first trip and had used religiously since. He smelled her last meal, a hearty root and venison stew that the tavern had served, and the slight tang of the dirt and dust he had carried her over. He smelled her dedication, her honor, and her compassion, layered with the lingering traces of his mark on her hand, already creeping beyond the boundaries of her arm. He smelled her skin, her own unique scent buried against everything else; a warm, velvety scent that tugged at his nose and had for months now. Something he did not focus on, even as it chased him during their travels, in camp as he tried to sleep, in his rotunda as he painted another mosaic while thinking of her, in battles as he watched her elegantly dominate the field, and during the long discussions as she listened so closely, so trustingly to everything he said.

He did not focus on that, the same as he did not now focus on her warmth against his chest as he virtually pressed her into the door, or the way she had lifted her head ever so slightly, allowing him further into her vulnerable neck for his inspection. He did not focus on his hands, fingers biting so softly into the wood of her door, caging her to him. He did not think about how close his lips and teeth were to her delicate throat, or how she would surely tremble against them were he to close the gap.

He did not imagine what the repercussions or reactions would be, were he to take her then. How the rest of the Inner Circle would react, how the oh so noble Cullen would react upon learning another had taken his sought after spot in her bed. He did not imagine leading her up to her room, and placing her on her soft bed. Lifting her feet, one at a time, and soothing her hurt there with hands warmed with magic. He did not imagine how he would then raise his hands to chase the ache in her shapely calves, or how his hands would raise higher still, under her blue, blue dress, or how her face would look as he did so. He did not imagine how she would taste as she sighed that same breathy sigh as earlier, nor as she would taste at the height of her pleasure. He did not imagine how her tongue would change the sound of his name, when she was thick in her passions. He did not imagine the feel of her delicate skin under him, hot and soft and wet and so young against something as old as he.

He did not focus on her increased heartbeat, or the way her breath stuttered ever so slightly, perhaps as she finally realized just what she had asked of him. There was not an answering growl from somewhere deep within him, where he had buried the parts of him that were purely Fen'Harel and not Solas.

What he did focus on, what he had to focus on, was the smell of _human_ that was so, _so_ unfortunately built into her scent. That reminded him of her death—which would occur far more quickly with his mark—and her heritage of oppression and slavery, even if she herself was not such. That reminded him of her position in the world, raised with the belief that the separation of the dreaming world and waking world as the will of some distant Maker, everlasting and natural, rather than the tattered mistake it was, slowly unraveling even without the Breach. That reminded him she would likely die, if not from his mark devouring her slowly, than from when he finally had the power to finish the job of tearing the veil down.

And it was that which allowed him to pull back from her, first his head, then his arms, and finally his body as he took a step away.

"You smell like mead," he smiled disarmingly.

In the light of the moons, she was flushed, but it may have been her intoxication or innocent embarrassment at his proclamation, as she ducked her nose into her collar to take a sniff for herself. He did not allow himself to think on what else the flush may have meant.

He chuckled, and took another step back, "Don't worry, it's temporary. Goodnight, Inquisitor."

He did not listen as she bid him his own sweet dreams, or to the sound of her bedroom door opening and shutting behind him. He walked in silence down the stairwell, and did not say anything to the guards as he left into the main hallway. He clasped his arms behind him as he walked to his room, a remote space away from the main quarters. He entered his space, and closed the door, warding it against intruders. Not enough to cause suspicion, but enough to give him time to return to his body from the Fade before he was disturbed.

He carefully undressed in the dark, and did not pause to smell at his shirt, layered now with her coy scent, as he folded his clothes and placed them onto his dresser. He did not let his mind drift off to warm skin and kind smiles as he laid onto his small bed, instead beginning the mental exercises which more easily allowed him to slip into the fade. Between one breath and the next, Solas slipped into slumber, and into the fade.

When he opened his eyes again, it was from a different point of view, and different perspective. His head lifted from his paws, and he stood, shaking out the stiffness of his rest, settling his skin to him like a old, well worn coat. The fade was different from when he had laid this part of him to rest, it was colder, stranger, and more empty. He looked around him, six eyes blinking cautiously, at the brightly colored fade around him, the silence that echoed around.

He sniffed, first cautiously, but then with more vigor, and he placed his snout to the ground to snuffle clarity. _There._ There it was, the faintest wisp. Once he had a scent, he knew to his bones, he would never lose it, no matter how they run.

Fen'Harel howled, and leapt into the hunt.


End file.
